


October 3rd: Bait

by TheHuggamugCafe



Series: Writober 2019 [3]
Category: Arsène Lupin - Maurice Leblanc
Genre: And I like it!, F/M, Flirty Arsène is the best Arsène, Fluff, Gentleman thief!Arsène, I cannot believe I wrote this, Nothing but sweetness to be found here, Novel!Arsène, Reader has an inferiority complex, detective!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 21:43:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20955368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuggamugCafe/pseuds/TheHuggamugCafe
Summary: A card game. The goal: win.Simple, right?It would be a simple matter, a laughable one, in fact.Unless you’re up against the living legend himself: Arsène Lupin.





	October 3rd: Bait

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, my fifty-second work on this site.
> 
> I would like to take a moment to thank my wonderful Discord friends for their inspiration and for their thoughts; they helped a lot with completing this musing.
> 
> First, my thanks goes to my good friend, Kai, for suggesting the manner in which Reader wins against this gentleman thief.
> 
> Next, a shout-out goes to the amazing Krisaliachan for providing me with Reader’s quote near the end:_“Victory is sweet, let me tell you~.”_
> 
> Finally, a thank you goes to NovaCorgi for providing me with the stipulations Reader gives to Arsène for winning.
> 
> You three are such marvellous, amazing people and I am grateful for your thoughts/suggestions.

It is the height of humour when someone challenges another person, the latter having uncanny luck that can best the former’s ill fortune.

It is irony of the highest calibre when you challenge a living legend.

But nothing is more hilarious or worthy of some deity’s dry wit than to challenge Arsène Lupin to _anything_.

And you always, _always _lose to him, no matter what test or dare you give him.

He may not admit to it, but you know that he loves winning against you as much as he adores asking for a reward.

“I beg your pardon, but never did I say that I would merely hand victory to you, my dear. Or are you in that much of a rush to steal a kiss from this gentleman?”

To say it infuriated you to watch as he sat across from you, all but _glowing _in satisfaction as he shot a charming little grin your way, would be putting it nicely.

“After all… I have already taken so many kisses from you as a reward, _non_?”

No sooner does the last word leave his lips, you feel your right eye twitching. Honestly, looking back on when you’d been assigned to the case of Arsène Lupin by the higher-ups in Britain, you were a mess of emotions: happiness, confusion, and relief at being recognized for your hard work were the first to hit you; worry, self-doubt, and the faintest prickling of fear followed.

_Why _the brass back home chose _you_, a rookie fresh from the police academy, to be given a top-priority case involving the arrest of a living legend: Arsène Lupin himself. There were—and no doubt still are—plenty of other older, far more experienced officers and detectives that were up to the task.

“Let’s make a deal shall we, _mon beau général_?”

Arsène’s voice yanks you from your thoughts. You raise your chin, blinking owlishly as your irises land on the thief sitting across from you. The tooth-filled grin is still present. It would’ve surprised you if he wasn’t smiling, smirking, or grinning even just a little bit.

“I’m listening, Lupin.”

“Should you best me, you may take however many kisses you’d like from me.”

You quirk a brow; a hum tickles the back of your throat as you tilt your head, curious.

“…As many as I want?” you say, reiterating his words.

“Yes.”

“…No questions asked?”

“None at all.”

You don’t respond for what feels like forever, raising a hand to your chin as your eyes flick back and forth in thought. If Arsène’s goal is to tempt you, then it’s certainly working. Much like he can’t resist the allure of some long-forgotten treasure or the vault of a greedy lord, you can’t resist the pull of a challenge. The temptation of being_ challenged_, especially by the most well-known gentleman thief in all of London. It’s like the first time a hunter gets their first big game kill—they become addicted to the thrill of the hunt.

You are no different. Much like how you pursued cases, chased criminals, and earned recognition from your superiors—soon, it was never enough. No case was too small and no hotshot burglar was too sly for you to catch. You needed _more_. More cases to solve. More criminals to put in jail. More praise showered upon you by your betters, those who oftentimes stepped _on you _and stepped _over you _to rub their success in your face. Suffice it to say, you had something of a cat and mouse game going on with your colleagues back home before you were transferred to London.

However, in the present, you had a different cat and mouse game to contend with the gentleman thief to top _all _gentleman thieves: Arsène Lupin.

Finally, you raised your head as the hand drops from your chin, returning to rest on your lap.

“…Very well. I accept your dare, _monsieur_,” you say, lazily drawling the French word.

A grin is quick to tug on the corners of Arsène’s lips, baring his teeth—they shine so beautifully in the silhouette that cloaks him, or so you think—to you as he chuckles. The laugh is coloured with amusement and his sharp eyes dance with merriment.

“So kind of you to accept this gentleman’s offer, my dear detective.”

You will back the sudden urge to roll your eyes heavenward, but you settle for smiling and nodding your head.

“So kind of you to offer this detective a deal, my marvellous gentleman.”

Silence, and then…

A laugh from Arsène assures you that all is well. The grin still curls his lips; his sharp obsidian eyes still shine, still twinkle with a light of entertainment; lastly, a quiet chuckle leaves his smiling lips.

You watch, slightly amused, as the thief sitting across from you begins to deal cards until you’re both holding five in your hands. The rest is shuffled and set aside.

The first rounds are cordial, which doesn’t surprise you in the least.

Cards are drawn. A matching pair—two pair, four pair—are declared, and yet for every inch you gain, Arsène gains a mile. As though to rub salt in bleeding cuts, he smiles and chuckles now and then, further aggravating you.

There is no malicious intent behind his actions, you know that much. He only wishes to tease you as he so enjoys doing, but the moment you show discomfort or anger, he is quick to back off and apologize.

You breathe a sigh, reaching for a card. You note that the number of cards in the deck has been cut in half; there aren’t many more chances for you to win. If you lost the game, Arsène will surely win and take a kiss from you as a reward.

“_A poker player will always hint of their hand. Always. It’ll be in their eyes, in their voice, or slathered on the words they speak. This is why you, Y/N, must learn to betray nothing; master the poker face. A poker player worth his salt will never, ever show his hand in any manner. Unless he’s sure he’s winning.”_

Suddenly, your uncle’s advice comes to mind. He was a good man, and he still is a good man. You knew him since birth and, once he figured you were old enough to learn, taught you how to play poker. Your parents disapproved, but your uncle assured your mother and father of two things: first, he wasn’t playing for keeps; second, even if he _was _playing for keeps, all he was willing to part with his niece was candy and some pocket money.

_I’m going to draw a jack next… A jack of hearts, if I’m not mistaken._

You reach for the deck. The card feels smooth against your fingers. You pull your hand back, eyes flicking down to the card you’re holding. You betray nothing on your visage. A grin doesn’t curl your lips. Your eyes don’t dance in self-satisfaction. You don’t laugh. You make sure to keep the mask you’ve been wearing since the poker game began: a poker face.

_Ah, a jack of hearts. As I thought…_

You watch over your cards as the gentleman thief reaches for the deck, pulls the card that’s on top, and pulls his arm back.

_I have a feeling that Arsène just drew a jack of spades…_

“Ah, the deck is being kind to me.”

_Again, huh? _you think sardonically, but you allow your face to betray no emotions.

_So, you’re just that sure you’ll win, Arsène? _you think, blinking once.

_Well, we’ll see what the deck has to say about that, shall we?_

A hand leaves the four cards you’re holding, reaching for another.

_Queen of hearts… Wonderful._

“Two pair,” you say, throwing down an eight of clubs and an eight of hearts.

“Four of a kind, nines,” Arsène responds, throwing down five cards.

There’s a seven of hearts, seven of clubs, seven of spades, a seven of diamonds, and a jack of spades.

You grumble a soft curse, admitting defeat for this round.

“Winner takes all, my dear. Do you wish to continue?”

You pull the best affronted, albeit fake, look you can possibly muster.

“I said I would play until I win, and I fully intend to.”

A chuckle is your reply to your statement.

“If I may say so, but I already miss the feeling of your lips against mine. I hope to become reacquainted with them very soon.”

_Oh, you will. However, it won’t be _you_ relishing in victory, Arsène._

This trend continues for what seems like, to you at least, forever. You draw a card, Arsène draws a card. He smirks, smiles, chuckles or tosses a flirty remark towards you. You offer him no genuine reaction; you have only false glares and faux anger to offer him, nothing more.

_Let him think he’s winning if he wishes to, _you think, keeping a stone-cold expression pointed on the thief directly across from where you’re sitting.

The deck is much smaller now. Ironically enough, there’s only two cards remaining. You reach forward, taking the second-last one; Arsène follows by taking the last card.

You peek at your hand.

It takes everything you have to will back a gasp, to make sure your eyes don’t widen, to ensure that your face betrays _nothing_.

You hold the best possible hand you’ve held in the poker matches you’ve played with Arsène this evening: the royal flush. A king of hearts, a queen of hearts, a jack of hearts, a ten of hearts, and an ace of hearts.

“Well, my dear…”

You look at the gentleman thief, blinking owlishly.

Smiling, he lays out his cards on the table, and you look. You see that it’s a straight flush. The eight of clubs, seven of clubs, six of clubs, five of clubs, and four of clubs stare back at you. You feign a gulp, watching as Arsène reaches for the hand—your dominant hand—that isn’t holding five cards. The contrast between the leather glove covering his hand and your bare knuckles brings a shiver to possess your shoulders, but it isn’t an unpleasant sensation.

“It seems you’ve lost. Unless, of course, you object to this gentleman winning?”

You swallow, licking your lips to give them proper moisture as Arsène carefully pulls you off of the chair, guiding you around the table. He’s preparing to sit you in his lap, you know this from previous losses.

“I don’t,” you begin, earning a hum of approval from the onyx-eyed man.

“Good,” he replies, stroking a cheek with a leather clad thumb.

“But—”

Your sudden objection gives him pause, and you watch his face as you flip your cards, showing your hand to the gentleman thief.

“My cards _do _object, Lupin.”

It is beyond hilarious to watch as the thief’s eyes flick from your face, to your winning hand, back to you and then back to the cards. He seems at a loss for words until, finally—

“I… _beg your pardon_?”

You rest your cards on the table. The hand that once held five cards is quick to find Arsène’s clothed shoulder, fingers gripping lightly.

“_Victory is sweet, let me tell you~_.”

“Now just hold on a moment here—”

Your lips gently cut him off. His eyes widen for a few moments before, finally, his other gloved hand finds yours, rubbing a leather clad thumb over your knuckles. You chuckle into the thief’s mouth before you lean back, smiling sweetly.

“My dear Arsène, don’t you see? I won honestly. All I did was _bait _you, and you fell for it hook, line, and sinker.”

Miffed, he quips back with, “Are you _sure _your win is an honest one, my rose?”

“Of course~. I’d never lie to you, Lupin.”

You lean in and he draws in a breath, obsidian eyes shining under the moonlight as you rest your forehead on his.

“Oh, by the way… As per the condition you set, not only will I be taking as many kisses from you as I wish, but I’m also adding the stipulation of you brewing coffee for me for the next week.”

Arsène merely breathes a huff in response. However, he is quick to smile that charming little grin you know oh so well.

“Macaroons as well, my dear?”

You press a kiss to his lips.

“If it’s not a bother, please.”

Chuckling, Arsène smiles as you kiss him for a third time.

“As my beautiful detective asks, so she will receive.”


End file.
